


Medical Marvel

by AllieCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fever, John is a Saint, M/M, Sherlock is a Brat, Sick!Sherlock, Vomiting, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieCat/pseuds/AllieCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust Sherlock to be a difficult patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medical Marvel

 

"I could very well be dying, you know. You're quite the insensitive doctor. Bedside manner, John. Get one." Sherlock's hoarse, rather grumpy voice fills the air, and when the doctor in question glances up and looks at his detective, the expression of total, utter disgust is nothing short of hilarious. John stifles a laugh, before getting up, abandoning his newspaper in favour of a thermometer, that had been on the coffee table since the moment they'd gotten in the door. Sherlock wasn't exactly healthy at present, but John had warned him not to go diving through the Thames and so didn't hold much sympathy for the idiot.

"The Met has a perfectly good dive team, Sherlock. Jumping into the river in the middle of January was possibly one of the stupidest things you've done in quite some time, perhaps ever." John chided, as he unceremoniously stuck the digital thermometer under Sherlock's tongue, glad for the minute of quiet it would bring about. Truth be told, seeing his partner in such a state was awful, he had experienced a sick Sherlock before, but never to this extent, and it was hard to watch. It was still his own bloody fault though, he'd be taking no credit for this idiot move.

"Yes, but-"

"Shut it."

"But Jo-"

"Shut it."

Sherlock growled, glowering up at John with the meanest expression he could manage. It was a rather hard task, as he was almost completely naked, prone on the sofa with a thermometer jammed between his teeth. When it beeped, Sherlock went to grab it, but John intercepted.

"Jesus, are you immune to paracetamol or something? It just never bloody ends with you." John exclaimed. Sherlock's fever seemed to be stuck on a not very nice 39.8 C, and John was concerned, to say the least. "It's only gone down point-one of a degree in half an hour, you're a medical marvel. And not in a good way." John muttered, mostly to himself. Trust Sherlock to be a difficult patient.

"Fantastic." Sherlock all but whispered, before closing his aching eyes, rubbing his aching head, stretching his aching legs and basically just aching. "Hurts." He whimpered dejectedly, looking up at John with his fever bright eyes that were no longer trying to look menacing.

"I know, love. Hopefully your fever'll keep dropping, though. Otherwise it'll be a hospital visit for you." John replied, smoothing Sherlock's errant curls out, combing his fingers through the poorly detective's hair. It didn't last long though, as mere moments later Sherlock's stomach made a rather strange noise that John knew could only mean one thing, and he disappeared into the kitchen, rumaging under the sink for a bucket that hopefully wasn't contaminated with some kind of awful chemical. When he got back, Sherlock was gone, and John could only guess where.

As the doctor headed for the bathroom, the acrid stink of bile filled the air and his guess was soon confirmed by the telltale sound of Sherlock retching violently over the toilet, his head beginning to look like it was in danger of getting stuck in the s-bend.

"Kill me, John. Get your gun out and put me out of my misery." Sherlock all but howled, before laying down on the cold tiles. He was wearing nothing but his pants, his clothes long since forgotten, and there wasn't much point in them if his body was burning from the inside out, anyway.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." John sighed as he perched on the edge of the tub and hauled Sherlock into something that resembled an upright position, and kissed his forehead. "When you stop vomiting, we'll try a cool bath, see if we can coax that fever to break." John murmured, as he rubbed Sherlock's back.

"You always slip into that collective 'we' thing, when you're in doctor mode." Sherlock mused somewhat deliriously, as he laid against John's legs, no longer having the energy to hold himself up without help. He kissed the denim that was currently covering John's left knee, leaving his head there a while before the knot of nausea right below his ribcage tightened, and he felt himself crawling back up over the toilet, almost instinctually.

"It's alright, love. It'll be over soon." John said quietly, holding Sherlocks hair out of his face with one hand, the other rubbing soft, slow circles over the detective's fever heated back. There was very little he could do for Sherlock, and that was the worst part of all of it. It wasn't like there was a cut he could stitch, or a broken leg he could splint. Being a medic was so very different to his job now, and the waiting for illness to pass was highly unsettling to John.

"Never going to be over, I'm going to die." Sherlock wailed, before collapsing back down on the tiles, actual honest to god tears rolling down his cheeks. In his rational mind, Sherlock knew that crying was definitely not appropriate for this situation, but his rational mind was long since gone, addled with fever and disease. Sherlock wondered if this was how John felt all the time, if this was what it meant to be average, nothing special. Whatever the case, Sherlock was tired of this nonsense, and it had to end.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm not going to let you die, you know that. I'm not going anywhere, love. I'm staying right here." John reassured the man, pulling him back down onto the tiles and rested a fluffy white towel beneath his head. Filling the bottom of the bath with cold water, John pulled a face cloth from the cupboard over the sink, and soaked it, dabbing it over Sherlock's chest in an effort to bring his fever down.

"Too cold, stop it." Sherlock grunted, swatting at John's hand. John ignored him, and continued anyway.

"I know it's cold, but that's just because you're burning like the fires of hell. Your organs are going to start shutting down if you don't let me do this." John told him quietly, dragging the cloth over Sherlock's displeased face. "You can have some more panadol in half an hour, though." He added, running his hand over Sherlock's hair. "Next time don't jump in the fucking Thames."  
"I didn't jump, I dove gracefully." Sherlock scowled, correcting his rude partner.

"You jumped. Not gracefully, either." John informed his boyfriend, smiling smugly.

"I'm very graceful." The feverish detective insisted, but John had all but won this time, he knew it.

"No, you're delusional. And extremely melodramatic." John grinned, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

They were quiet for a while, Sherlock dozing, drifting in and out of sleep, seemingly only waking up to make sure that John was still there and that his doctor had kept his promise. Sherlock was quite sure that he'd never felt so ill in his life, even though he'd had the flu a few times, and had spent most of his childhood wrapped in a blanket of sickness. His immune system had never been particularly fantastic, but it had really let him down this time. He'd quite forgotten the toll a fever had on the mind, and it felt as though his brain was melting and turning into a grey matter smoothie, or a mushy mind stew, dates and names, times and places all mixed up and chopped, crushed into the wrong places.

"Come on, up you go." Sherlock heard John, though it was vague and distant. Next thing he knew, he was being hauled over (slumped, really - John was a bit of a midget) his boyfriend's shoulder and dragged away from the cold sanctuary that was the bathroom floor, and likely to his room. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. Use your legs, you're a dead weight like this." John muttered, though there seemed to be no negative inflections in the man's voice. Moaning softly, Sherlock did his best to make his feet work, but it seemed like his mushy wasteland of a brain had trouble understanding that and he could barely manage to drag his feet. "Nearly there, love. I know it hurts." John said softly, as he laid Sherlock down on their bed. "Just going to grab the thermometer." He added, but he was falling asleep rapidly and the only thing he noticed before he drifted off was John's footfalls in the hallway.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*  
John watched Sherlock sleeping for what felt like weeks, but was really only a few hours. Even though the discomfort his partner was in was obvious even in sleep, John was just happy that the man was finally getting some proper rest. Rather than disturb him, John had taken to slipping the thermometer under Sherlock's arm, keeping a good track on his fever. Not particularly happy with Sherlock's progress, he wondered if a dose of intraveinous paracetamol might work better than the pills the poor thing seemed unable to keep down. IT wouldn't be hard to get hold of some, a text to Sarah would do it, and if not then he had no doubt that Mycroft could organise something. He was actually rather surprised that Mycroft hadn't made an appearance thus far, touch wood.

Time passed slowly and John occupied the downtime as best he could, savouring the quiet, uncharacteristically peaceful atmosphere. He read the paper, made tea, started reading a book and ordered takeaway, getting something light for Sherlock too, in the unlikely case that he might want to eat. As much as he hated to see Sherlock so horribly sick, the peace was something he could get used to. When he really thought about it, though, he didn't think he'd ever be able to get used to a quiet Sherlock, it was almost disturbing. Eventually, as John watched over his charge turned to night and by the time Sherlock made any sort of noise, it was nearing midnight.

"No, no, don't!" Sherlock was still whispering,barely even loud enough to be heard, but his panic stricken voice filled the room. "Please, no, not that!" He continued to mumble, twisting and turning in his sheets, before he let out a strangled sob, his grey-green eyes shooting open, trained directly on John.

"It's alright, love. It was only a dream." John murmured, before he abandoned his chair for the comfort of their bed, crawling in beside a panicked Sherlock. "It's alright, love. It's not real, it's just the fever." He whispered, pulling the trembling detective into his arms, kissing him back into reality.

"It was awful." Sherlock admitted softly, as if expressing emotion might actually ruin him. He still had his eyes fixed on John something in him seemed to think that if he looked away he might just disappear, and so he clung on as if for dear life.

"Just breathe, Sherlock. It's okay, love. It's all over now, I've got you." John murmured, holding him tightly, as he rubbed his bare back. "Here, open up." He smiled gently, as he reached over and grabbed the thermometer, wiping it on his shirt before putting it under Sherlock's tongue, much to the sick detective's disgust.

The thermometer gave him something to focus on at least, and by the time it beeped, Sherlock wasn't quite such an emotional wreck.

"38.2, still too high, but much better." John smiled through the dark, pleased that Sherlock seemed to be recovering, even if it was early days. He knew he'd likely have a cranky, snuffly detective on the sofa for the rest of the week at the very least. "You'll be feeling better in no time, you'll see." John reassured his boyfriend.

Sherlock nodded, burrowing his face into the crook of John's neck. Deducing anything was out of the question right now, as his brain had already melted and was currently slushing about in his skull. However, John did smell rather nice, his doctor had apparently had time to shower while Sherlock had been sleeping.

"Was it the torture dream again?" John asked softly, after they'd laid there in silence for a while, and Sherlock seemed to have calmed down. John held him tighter after he nodded 'yes' and kissed his cheek. It had taken John a long time to before he really understood that Sherlock gone through just as much pain and suffering over the last two years as he had. John's attempts to get him to see a therapist had been throughly thwarted, and he'd given up after a while. "You can tell me about it, you know." John reminded him, like he had plenty of other times before. It never made any difference though, Sherlock never let him in, never told him about the dreams that seemed to plague him.

"I'm fine." Sherlock mumbled, his voice muffled by John's t-shirt. He definitely wasn't fine, not when he had what might as well be the bubonic plague, and the fact that he'd just almost had a panic attack in their bed.

"Bullshit. I'll get you some painkillers, and some cold meds if I can find some." John smiled knowingly, Sherlock was good at denying anything was wrong, but was positively awful at covering it up. Leaving his poorly boyfriend with a kiss, John did as he was promised and eventually returned with a concoction of pills and a tall glass of water. "Sit up, love." John said quietly, as Sherlock shuffled himself up. "Right, paracetamol, codeine, and a decongestant. Oh and that one's for the nausea." John explained, as Sherlock downed all four pills at once, chasing them down with the water.

"Happy now?" Sherlock asked, glaring at John, though his eyes lacked their usual arrogance, and his voice was so hoarse it was barely even there.

"Yes, love. Go back to sleep, you'll feel better once those pills start working." John rolled his eyes as Sherlock crumpled back down on the bed. The thought of sleep was not a comforting one, and so rather than sleep he did what he could to relax, turning onto his side and closing his eyes. John would be able to tell that he wasn't actually sleeping, but the idea of going back to torture filled dreams was enough to make him never want to sleep again.

"I'm here, love." John murmured, as if he could read Sherlock's mind. He laid down beside the detective as he sponged at his hot skin with the cold, wet cloth.

"I know." Came Sherlock's weak response, and John cringed. Seeing Sherlock so ill was awful, even if it was his own fault.

"Next time you want to go diving in the Thames in the dead of winter, try a wetsuit at the very least. Not your bloody pants." John grinned, mostly to himself. Shuffling in closer, John brushed his fingertips over Sherlock's face, kissing him gently. "As much as this is your own stupid fault, I don't like you being sick."

"Shut up." Sherlock growled, but it was devoid of any emotion.

"Go back to sleep, love. I'm right here." John murmured, kissing his detective's cheek, before flicking the lamp off.

"Don't leave me." Sherlock mumbled, as he slipped into sleep once more.

 


End file.
